


may the sunrise bring hope

by deerie



Series: may the sunrise bring hope [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Camping, Conversations, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Healing, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Nogitsune Trauma, Post - Nogitsune, Sad with a Happy Ending, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:08:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1309288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerie/pseuds/deerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s kind of nice out here. He doesn’t recognize any landmarks when he looks around these woods. There is no ‘this is the spot where Lydia stepped in a coyote trap and I couldn’t read the safety label.’ No ‘this is the giant tree stump that opened a door in my mind and let in an angry nogitsune’ or ‘this is where the monster holding my body hostage set a trap to try and kill my lacrosse coach with an arrow.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	may the sunrise bring hope

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from "Upward Over The Mountain" by Iron & Wine, specifically this line: _so may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten_. [Nikki](http://honeybearbee.tumblr.com) looked over this for me.

Derek picks Stiles up thirty minutes after he gets a text from him – the only information given being a highway number and a mile marker.

Stiles’ red shirt sticks out from the dense green of the forest behind him. His shoulders are hunched, but the tip of one shoe digs into the dirt and grit by the edge of the road.

Derek pulls onto the shoulder and waits.

Stiles swings the car door open gently, but doesn’t get in. He grips the top of the door with one hand and puts the other on top of the car.  He sways forward and says quietly, “I didn’t want to worry my dad.”

Derek leans across the console and says, “It’s fine. Get in the car.”

“Sorry – I’m,” Stiles stutters as he slides into the car. The door closes behind him with a clunk. He settles on, “I’m sorry.”

Derek waits for the sound of the seat belt clicking into place before he pulls back onto the road. “It’s not a problem.”

Stiles chews on the skin of his thumb. Derek can smell the sharp tang of blood. He reaches over and pulls Stiles’ hand out of his mouth. “Sorry,” Stiles repeats.

Derek doesn’t let go of his hand. He rests his elbow on the console and circles his fingers around Stiles’ wrist loosely, thumb rubbing small circles on the back of Stiles’ hand.

Stiles falls asleep ten minutes into the drive back. Derek thinks about taking him back to his house, but he’s pretty sure the Sheriff is working. He doesn’t think Stiles should be alone right now.

Derek takes him home.

****  
  


Stiles wakes up to a quiet loft. He’s disoriented for a moment – he doesn’t know where he is, how he got here, if he’s still dreaming – but it comes back to him slowly. He texted Derek and Derek came and got him.

He must have brought him here too.

Stiles rubs the heel of his hand against his eyelid and blinks, blearily clearing the sleep out of his eyes. He wonders how long it’s been since Derek picked him up. He wonders how long he’s been asleep.

He lifts his head up when he hears footsteps behind him, but it’s just Derek coming out of the kitchen. Stiles drops his head back down on the arm of the couch.

Derek sets a glass of water on the coffee table in front of Stiles and sits down at one of the chairs.

Stiles pushes up on an elbow and leans forward just enough to snag the glass and drain half of it. “Thanks,” he says, voice still hoarse.

Derek pulls a book off the table and starts to read.

Stiles finishes his water. He rolls off the couch and returns the glass to the kitchen sink, stops by the bathroom to empty his bladder. He traces the perimeter of the loft, step by step, and Derek lets him, eyes never straying from the pages in front of him.

Stiles doesn’t bother him, manages to stay quiet for fifteen, twenty minutes. Then the words seem to overflow all at once – he says, “Dad thinks I’m sleepwalking again.”

Derek looks up from his book at that, and closes it over his finger to save his place. “How’d you get out there?”

Stiles smiles, but it’s not a happy thing – it’s a jagged scar across his face. “You have to actually go to sleep to sleepwalk,” he says. “I can’t – I can’t risk it.”

Derek graciously doesn’t mention the sleep Stiles has gotten here.

“Remember when they found me in the coyote den?” Stiles waits for Derek to nod. Derek doesn’t want to remember and it didn’t even happen to him. “I remember waking up in Melissa’s arms and thinking, ‘ _it didn’t work, it didn’t work_.’ If they hadn’t found me, I would have died. I crawled out there to die, like an animal.”

Derek knows where he’s going with this, so he stops him. “You went there because you were trying to protect the people you love. You were working on what information you had at the time.”

“But the nogitsune didn’t need a living person to possess.”

“Right,” Derek looks down at his hands. Listening to Stiles talk himself through this hurts, viscerally, and Derek knows it’s selfish, that this isn’t about him – it’s not fair for him to tell someone else how to cope. But the nogitsune didn’t need a living person to possess, and for all anyone knows, Stiles staying alive was the only thing preventing so much more bloodshed. It doesn’t excuse the trauma, but -- “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

“Because the nogitsune would have killed more people.” Stiles says, voice small. Stiles connects dots, but not always in the right order.

Derek shakes his head. “Because I would miss you.”

“I wanted to leave,” Stiles says, wistfully.

That’s not exactly the reaction he was expecting. Derek frowns.

Stiles seems oblivious to his distress, says, “That’s how I got out there. I wanted to leave, so I walked.”

 _Christ_ , how long had he been walking?

“Let’s go camping,” Stiles says abruptly.

Derek looks up at him, mouth rounded in surprise. Derek schools his expression and nods.  He says, “Okay. We’ll go camping. Do you want me to ask the others?”

It’s not anything near a smile that crosses Stiles’ mouth when he shakes his head no, but it’s close enough to count. Derek will take what he can get. “Call your dad, let him know.”

 

Derek drives four hours out of Beacon Hills. The ride is quiet, save for songs with soft notes lilting out of the radio.

For this time of year, the camp ground he chose is surprisingly bereft of people, but the trees are still lush and green. Derek remembers when the preserve in Beacon Hills looked like this forest - a long time ago, unapologetic and alive.

He stops just long enough at the park entrance to check in. When he gets back to the car, Stiles has his fingertips pressed against the window. Derek would complain about prints on the glass, but he doesn't. Stiles looks more relaxed - has looked lighter since they left Beacon Hills.

It just confirms what he already knows - that Beacon Hills is a toxin and the longer they stay, the sicker they get.

Derek slips back behind the wheel and Stiles turns to look at him.

Faintly - across his mouth, a smile sits. Derek sucks in a breath. He wants to press his fingers against the corner of that smile and make sure it's real. He keeps his hands on the steering wheel. He doesn’t put them on Stiles like he wants to.

He quirks a smile back and Stiles nods once. He turns back to look out the window, as the greenery and sunshine flash by.

There are a couple of RVs up front and a few tents scattered close enough to the pool and playground, but their campsite is in the back of the park, far from other people.

Stiles straightens up when they pull into a slip and park. He points, "Is this us?"

"Yeah," Derek says. "Let's set up the campsite."

Stiles nearly falls out of the car in his haste to get out. Derek smothers a smile. He's missed this, too.

They set up the tent and get the coolers out of the back of the car. Stiles lets Derek start the fire. He doesn’t trust himself, not really, not ever, not anymore. Derek’s hands only tremble once, twice.

Stiles smooths a hand over his back, because he knows the shudder Derek suppresses is his fault. All he has now to offer is comfort. It feels hollow in his stomach, but he gives what he can.

When they have a roaring flame, Derek rocks back to sit in one of the chairs Stiles liberated from his dusty garage. His dad had been okay with the camping idea - of Stiles leaving Beacon Hills with Derek Hale - and offered up what was still usable in their garage from the camping trips they used to take as a family before his mom got sick.

He pushes himself up from his knees and takes the chair next to Derek. The chairs are close enough together that Stiles lets his knee brush against Derek’s.

It’s kind of nice out here. He doesn’t recognize any landmarks when he looks around these woods. There is no ‘this is the spot where Lydia stepped in a coyote trap and I couldn’t read the safety label.’ No ‘this is the giant tree stump that opened a door in my mind and let in an angry nogitsune’ or ‘this is where the monster holding my body hostage set a trap to hit my lacrosse coach with an arrow.’

This forest feels open, less oppressive.

Stiles feels like he could heal, if given the opportunity.

 

 **  
  
**They learn a lot about each other during the three days they spend here: **  
**

Derek likes the marshmallows and the chocolate in s’mores, but could care less about the graham crackers. That’s okay, because Stiles bought the graham crackers with the cinnamon sugar on the backs and he loves them. Their fingers get sticky with marshmallows and melted chocolate.

Stiles steals covers if given the opportunity. He tangles himself in them, gets too hot even in the chill of the summer nights, and whines in his sleep. It’s distracting, but he’s sleeping, so Derek just untangles him, steals back his fair share, and hushes him back to sleep.

Derek runs in the mornings. Stiles is a good running partner. Derek wonders if this is because of lacrosse and cross country or because Stiles has been running for his life ever since Peter bit Scott. They run through the well marked trails in the park early before the sun gets too hot. Stiles still sweats through his shirt.

Derek can cook surprisingly well on a campfire. Stiles says, “Makes sense, considering you only just graduated to a fully functioning adult.” Derek is so surprised that Stiles makes a joke that he forgets to be angry at the jab. Stiles grins into his hamburger and Derek thinks, fiercely, that this is progress.

Stiles watches the sun go down at night and watches it rise again in the morning. Derek sits with him, arm heavy across his shoulders, and anchors him.

 

 

“What are we doing?” Stiles asks. His fingers are knotted in the ties on the tent, brow furrowed.

“Cleaning up,” Derek says slowly. He told the Sheriff he’d have Stiles back in town by the end of the day, and as much as Derek hates that he has to take Stiles back to Beacon Hills, he knows he can’t be on the Sheriff’s bad side.

A bird chirps in the brisk morning air. Something rustles the underbrush, heartbeat quick like Stiles’. A breeze curls its way through the tops of the trees.

“No,” Stiles says. “What are _we_ doing?”

Derek drops the too big tarp he’s been trying to fold by himself to the ground and crosses the space between them in a few long strides. The forest doesn’t go silent but it seems to swell, to hold its breath and wait for Derek’s answer.

Derek untangles Stiles’ fingers and cradles both of Stiles’ hands between his own. The tips of his fingers rest against the thin skin of Stiles’ wrists, the bones under his touch oscillating ever so slightly as Stiles trembles.

Stiles is the strongest person Derek knows. Now, Derek needs to be strong for Stiles.

He inhales –

Someday, Derek will buy a house. The house will be far from Beacon Hills - far from its unhappy streets, far from the reach of a bitter Nemeton, far from bitten fingernails.

There will be land surrounding all sides of the house, enough land because he is a wolf and Stiles needs space. Stiles needs the space to breathe, that's what this trip proves. He needs space to wander, to exist - a fresh slate, a baptism.

For now, Derek tugs him closer - gently, because this Stiles is fractured, splintered, and Derek doesn’t want to cause any more harm - and Stiles comes willingly, palms up as if asking for forgiveness.

Derek can’t make the words come to tell Stiles that he never has to ask for forgiveness, not about what happened while he was possessed, not ever. When he presses his hands to the sides of Stiles’ face, he hopes it feels like a benediction.

 

\- when they kiss, it’s like coming home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [*](http://deerie.tumblr.com)
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> I've got like ten billion things in the works, so of course the thing I manage to finish first is this angst-fest. :) I hope you liked it!


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